


Tenting Tonight

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Humor, M/M, None - Freeform, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:38:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim returns home from a conference to find Blair's been feeling a little lonely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tenting Tonight

## Tenting Tonight

#### by Aouda Fogg

  
They don't belong to me, but to the PTB. No infringement or violation intended.  
This story is for Pam, who won it at the Moonridge Auction -- thank you very much, Pam! I'd also like to say thanks to Aly and her elves for putting the whole thing on! Oh, and a gold star for the day for anyone who knows where I got the title. <g>  
  


* * *

I've never really understood people who think having a totally predictable spouse is a good thing. That sounds awfully boring to me. 

Don't get me wrong, I like predictability and reliability as much as the next guy. Knowing his favorite color, that I'm never going to come home and find him reading a Danielle Steel book, that while symphony tickets would be appreciated, Jags tickets are better, and that those pink and white frosted animal cookies are secretly his favorites; that's all great. I mean, there were times when I didn't know if holding the door open for Carolyn was a good idea. That gets old fast. 

But I love the fact that there's always something new to discover about Sandburg, some new facet to add to the kaleidoscope that is my Guide. 

Having said all that, I was still pretty surprised when I walked in the door last night. 

He hadn't been expecting me until the morning; I'd been away at an unusually tedious three-day conference, and my need to see him had outweighed my need for sleep, so I'd headed home rather than staying in a Guide-less hotel room another night. He'd been stuck in Cascade with an unusually tedious deposition, so we'd each had to go it alone. 

I hate that. 

I may also have left just the smallest amount early. Perhaps. 

So, I'd surprised him by arriving last night rather than this morning. 

And he'd surprised me. He was standing at the stove, doing that flamingo stand thing he does sometimes -- leaning against the counter, right foot against his left knee, one leg bent. Flamingo. But that wasn't what surprised me. It was the fact that he was roasting a couple of marshmallows. Over the burner. In the house. That seemed odd even for Blair. 

It was a minute before I could ask him about it, though, because he launched himself at me with a huge grin and said howdy the way I love being welcomed home the most -- a full body Sandburg hello. Complete with lingering kisses and deft hand movements. 

A few minutes later, I slung my duffle bag towards the stairs. He unwrapped his arms from around my neck and I looked at the long fork in his hand. 

"Those really are marshmallows." 

He stared down at the white puffs, then back up at me, and nodded. "Yes, but they were evil marshmallows, so it's ok that I skewered them and am now slowly roasting them over flame." 

"Well, as long as they were malfeasants. But would you like to explain why you've captured them here, at the loft, rather than out in their natural environment, the woods?" 

He shrugged and looked sheepish. I followed him over to the kitchen and saw graham crackers and Hershey's squares all staged on the counter. 

"S'mores? You're making s'mores?" That threw me. I mean, s'mores are outside food, you know? Camping, the beach, bonfires. It was a weird juxtaposition to see them inside. 

"Yeah. I know. Weird." Then his voice got quieter. "But I was missing you, feeling a little lonely." Another shrug, which I could see very clearly with his back to me. "And for some reason, I started thinking about when we went to the peninsula last summer, so I was missing camping, too, and since it's, like, November, and raining outside, even if we could get the time off, it's way too cold. So, you know. . ." 

Not able to stand his slightly melancholy air a moment longer, I wrapped my arms around him and hooked my chin over his shoulder. "So you were making s'mores." 

"Yep," he answered, turning the burner off. 

"Makes perfect sense. I missed you, too." 

He grinned, leaned back to kiss me, and the last of his loneliness seemed to burn away. 

I glanced down at the counter again. "Hey! Is that my good barbecue fork?" 

"Indeed it is." He turned in my arms. "The other ones are all down in the camping stuff." 

I cocked my eyebrow at him. 

"Oh, chill, man. It's just sugar. It'll come off." 

"It better. My steaks better not have a marshmallow aftertaste." 

"Oh, please." 

"Oh, please, what?" 

"Oh, please, kiss me?" 

"Ok, even if you were abusing one of my favorite cooking implements." 

He rolled his eyes, and for the next few minutes, I didn't give a rat's ass about the fork, the annoying conference presenter, the rain outside, or anything other than the warm, beautiful body in my arms. Finally, I pulled away and buried my face in his hair. "Love you, Chief." 

"Love you back, Big Guy." 

I squeezed him again and stepped back. "So, we got any food other than s'mores?" 

"Shit. No, I was too lazy to go by the store tonight, and besides," he looked at me inquiringly, "you're not supposed to be home for," a quick watch glance, "another fifteen hours. I was supposed to have time." 

I'm sure my sheepish shrug wasn't nearly as good as his. "Yeah, well, the hotel bed sucked, especially without you, so I bugged out of the last session and came home." 

"Simon's going to be underwhelmed." 

"Simon's never going to know. I stayed long enough to get the handouts." 

He threw his arms up in a victory "V." "Yes! Ditching with forethought!" He crowed. "Further evidence that I've rubbed off on you!" 

I laughed at his gloating. "Oh, you've rubbed off on me plenty, Sandburg. Last week on the couch, that time at the gym . . ." 

"Hey! They were closed for the night." 

"Did I say I minded?" 

"Nope." 

"Exactly." 

"Excellent. Well, now that we've settled the fact that I've turned you to the dark side, what do you say we decide about dinner?" 

I love how his mind works. "I don't care, as long as it's food. And I don't have to cook it." 

"Big surprise. Well, we're about down to that can of weird soup my mother got last time she was here and graham crackers. Hardly the makings of a feast. Oooo." His eyes widened in delight. A good look for him. "You know what sounds good? The Special Feast from Thai-phoon." 

I shook my head regretfully. "Great idea, but this time of night? On a Friday? Delivery will take forever." 

My protests got brushed aside as he bounced up on his toes. "No problem, man, you clean up a little, and I'll go pick it up!" 

"But it's raining --" 

"No worries! I've got it -- besides, the market is right down the street. I can pick up a few things on the way, and then we can sleep in tomorrow morning." 

I gazed down into eyes made even bluer by expectation and gave in gracefully under the tide of Sandburgian enthusiasm. "Sounds like a plan, Chief. You want to head out and I'll call it in?" 

"Yep. See you in a few minutes. And I want chicken in the yellow curry." 

I nodded absently as I told him to drive carefully and looked for the phone; he grabbed his keys and jacket and motored out the door. As I stood there for a minute and tried to figure out what clever place he'd left the phone, my eyes drifted past the abandoned s'mores fixings. 

Something clicked: he'd said he was missing camping. I have no idea where the idea came from, but I suddenly realized I could do something about that. A form of "camping" that didn't involve having to get time off, a wet tent to dry out, me trying to light a fire with damp wood, or, most importantly, a soggy Blair. 

I found the phone (it was half under the cushions on the couch), and dialed, trying to figure out if I had enough time and to remember which bag of camping gear had the cooking stuff. I decided to cheat just a bit and give myself some extra time -- I ordered the spicy duck, which ought to give me an extra ten minutes. 

Then I got busy. Never let it be said I couldn't do romantic. It's just our kind of romantic. 

But it works for us, so who gives a shit? 

I showered first, not wanting to risk cutting it too close, him coming home to find me still in the shower, and me missing the look on his face. Barely giving myself enough time to dry off, I headed down to the storage area. It took two trips, but a few minutes later, I had the tent, lantern, sleeping bags, foam pads, and camping dishes piled in the living room. 

Shoving the furniture against the far wall, I got to work. Setting up the tent is really a two person job now that we've graduated to a larger one, but I was motivated, and with a minimum of cursing, I had it set up in front of the fireplace in no time. Zipping the sleeping bags together, I soon had them spread over the pads, and the inside of the tent all cozy and ready. I had to improvise with the lantern a bit, since I could hardly drive the pole it hangs from into the floor, but the plant rack Blair'd bought last month worked great. Happily, he'd already laid a fire, so that was a piece of cake. I stood back and surveyed what I'd done. The tent looked pretty funny against a backdrop of windows, but the lantern and the firelight were perfect with all the other lights off. 

In a final burst of inspiration, I went into his old bedroom, found the ancient boom box that now rarely played jungle drums, and headed for the CD shelves. CDs are one of the few things Blair keeps consistently organized, so I found what I was looking for easily. Then I got to use my hearing for fun -- by positioning the little boom box just right, and using the babbling brook CD that usually drives me crazy, I made it sound like a stream was passing just beyond the tent. The final touch was another CD -- the woodland sounds one Blair likes to meditate to. 

Extremely pleased with myself, I tossed a couple of blankets down for us to sit on, got the camping plates out, made sure I'd moved everything we'd need for s'mores near the tent, and stretched out to wait. 

I didn't have to wait long. Unfortunately, as I listened to him struggling with the bags, I realized the flaw in my plan. So, abandoning my idea of lying enticingly in wait in front of the fire, I got up, helped him carry the groceries and food up, and let him precede me into the loft. 

I'd anticipated him stopping mid-step, so I avoided the collision and just watched his face as he took in what I'd done. I love how he doesn't hide his emotions from me, how his eyes and his expressions convey so much without words. His openness always humbles me and makes me vow to work harder at being as open with him. As I watched confusion give way to amusement, and amusement widen his grin into delight, I stood there and just loved him. 

Finally, he spun around to face me. "You are so amazing." 

"You're the amazing one, babe. I'm so glad I get to come home to you." 

This time his eyes softened with a warmth that made me want to wrap myself around him, forget about the world outside these walls, and hold him forever. I did something almost as good. 

Dipping down for a quick kiss, I pushed him upstairs to change into something more comfortable, took care of the groceries, arranged the Thai food on the blankets and resumed my enticing sprawl in front of the fire. Then I waited for him to come back and wrap himself around me. 

When he came back down, all he wore was his oldest, most raggedy pair of sweats. Sweats he'd never take camping because he'd be too cold. My plan had unexpected benefits! 

I tried to smirk up at him from the floor, but I bet it came out more like a leer. "Nice. The dress code in this campground is great." 

"No bugs, either." 

"We may never leave this room again." 

"Works for me, as long as you feed me." 

I gestured grandly at the Styrofoam and paper cartons arrayed between us. "Ask, and you shall receive." 

"What if I ask for a kiss first?" He asked as he knelt down next to me. 

Rather than bothering to answer verbally, I wrestled him to the floor -- not that he put up much of a fight -- and kissed him with all the pent up desire I'd been accumulating while I'd been away. He looked decidedly mussed when I finally broke the kiss. 

"Wow." His voice was just as dazed. "The service here rocks." 

Grinning ferally, I opened the closest container, fished out one of the shrimp with my fingers, and fed it to him. He was more than scrupulous in making sure that none of the sauce was left on my fingers. 

The entire meal was that way. Yellow curry never tasted so good as from his lips and off his chest. We fed each other, sharing bites and looks, touches and strokes. Neither one of the plates got used. The pad thai gave us the most trouble, but we persevered and had more fun for it. 

Sometimes we talked, sometimes we didn't. He told me about the new heights of idiocy the D.A. had achieved. I told him about not learning anything new at the conference. I found new ways to make him gasp and shudder; he tried a couple of things that worked just as well on me. Then, when we'd finally decimated the meal, Blair did some truly amazing things with a washcloth. By the time he was finished, he'd reduced me to a quivering mass of need and want and desire. He wouldn't let me come, however, even when I begged. Instead, he just held me, kissing and touching me occasionally, until I could think again. 

Once both of us were back in control, he sent me into the tent while he took care of the washcloth. I watched the firelight turn his skin a ruddy gold as he came back towards me, and laid back against the sleeping bags as he stepped in to join me. We didn't zip it up, but having the tent around us completed my feelings of being off in our own world, cut off from anything that wasn't us and our pleasure in each other. I steeped myself in the sensation, savoring it, even as the needs of my body began clamoring again. 

We settled against each other, his legs tangling with mine and drawing me closer. I was so lost in the sensation of his skin against mine, it took a few moments to realize he'd begun thrusting gently, rocking us, and whispering hotly against my chest. 

"I'm going to take you in ways you've only dreamed of. I'm going to love you so deep, just the memory will make you hard." 

His murmured words were intense and dark and made me groan in need at the images they set off in my mind. I writhed helplessly against him, trying to urge him on, make him move, do something, anything, but he was tenacious. As much as I love it when he gets all pushy and in control, I hate it just as much because I know no matter how much I plead, we're on his time schedule, and he likes nothing more than making me wait and watching me beg. 

And, as usual, he was right; by the time he finally pushed inside me, I was so beyond thought I couldn't even remember how to put two ideas together. I have vague, hazy memories of his hands trailing fire all over my body, of his fingers biting into my hips as he thrust frantically against me, driving us both higher and higher until we spilled over the edge together. That's the strongest memory -- the feel of him coming against me, in me, around me, and of me coming a heartbeat behind him, blinded by the sparks of pleasure burning along all my nerves. 

And now I'm holding him, watching the dawn slowly illuminate the tent. I don't need the light to see him, however, collapsed against my chest, his mouth slightly open, his lashes sweeping along the curve of his cheeks. I can feel his marks all over my body, can see some that I left on him, and I remember his other words; that just the memory of this night is going to make me hard for a long, long time. It's going to. 

I smoothed the sleeping bag over us again and settled in to watch the dawn light his face and to savor the gift that is the man cradled in my arms. I am content here in our home, in our tent, in our own world. 

* * *

End Tenting Tonight by Aouda Fogg: aoudafogg@yahoo.com  
Author and story notes above.

  
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